


Forged in Fire, Baptized in Blood

by Pilarcraft



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls Online, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Castle Volkihar, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dawnguard, Gen, Thalmor, The Aldmeri Dominion, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilarcraft/pseuds/Pilarcraft
Summary: Skyrim is a large place, and the latter years of the Fourth Era an important time in History. The Dragonborn was not the only person of interest who roamed the Old Kingdom and his was not the only adventure to shake its polity or change its people.





	1. 1. Ancano

****When the dispatch from Alinor arrived, it took First Emissary Elenwen less than an hour to find the best elf for the job.

They needed an operative who would stay where he was supposed to. To spy in the daylight and distract everyone from his true mission.

Altmer are not good at discretion. Bosmer are terrible at most forms of magic. Khajiit are simply too suspicious. When the first emissary received the dispatch from the Supreme Ambassador herself, she knew the best man for the job: Ancano.

Ancano was a crafty operative. He was not only quite an expert in magic –one of the best torturers in Northwatch who had graduated from the Royal College of Alinor with flying colors in Destruction and Illusion- but he was also blunt in his approach. So blunt in fact that none had actually seen through his act to see if he is doing anything underhanded. In contrast with Ondolemar who everyone deduced was planning to stab someone in the back, Ancano’s unorthodox approach had never failed yet.

Oh, the fact that Elenwen was quite peeved at him helped too. A few years in the ice fields would probably do the mer some good.

* * *

When Ancano, agent of the Thalmor and servant of the Aldmeri Dominion entered her office, he was not amused. “First Emissary,” he said importantly, “why have you summoned me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my friend?” The emissary, one of the few she-elves outside of Alinor itself who could trace her lineage back to the Old Guard, responded, “you have a new mission.”

Ancano did not reply. His stature nor his expression changed. Elenwen smiled, “Alinor has decided that our mission in Skyrim requires a delegation to the College of Winterhold, the only place of knowledge this wasteland has to offer. You drew the short straw.”

“Since when does _Skyrim _have a college?” Ancano raised an eyebrow. A question not without merit, the local Nords were known for their rather deep lack of trust for magic. Elenwen smiled coldly, however, “if you had paid attention in the history lessons you indubitably received in Alinor, you would know. Despite the hatred these… people… are prone to show for the clever craft, there is in fact a place of knowledge in this land. One of the oldest, in fact. The College may not be worthy of his historical fame nowadays, but it was nonetheless built by Shalidor himslf.”

“And what was this Shalidor? A Halfmer?” Ancano was not known for his affinity to read books. Or his knowledge about other races. “Ironically enough, no. He was a Nord. Or possibly an Atmoran, Providence knows they were still migrating en masse from the Cold North even that late into the first era. The old books aren’t quite clear on it other than naming him one of the Children of the Sky. Nevertheless, you are to travel to this so-called college as the Dominion’s delegation. Their Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, is a Dunmer well renowned for his tolerance of foreigners and he will expect you. You will receive the full briefing for your mission in a few days’ time after you arrive in the College. Auri-El guide you.”

The operative _tried _to protest, but he could not find a logical reason to evade this mission. Bailing would probably prove that he was not prominent enough to be candidate for any promotion anytime soon, and one _had _to resort to hardships for success to be in reach. He had no other choice, really. “Your will is done, first emissary. For the Dominion.”

* * *

It was a month later that Ancano arrived at the city of Winterhold. Five soldiers escorted him and Estormo, his closest confidant, walked by his side.

“If this is what goes for a city in this backwater, you can’t really blame the Nords for their state of life, can you?” Estormo asked mindlessly, “They have it all _wrong_”

He was, of course, right. A few wooden huts, less than a score of Nords walking around in rags, and _one _building for both the guard force and the civic government. The few Nords who still lived here walked around, got drunk at night, and cursed their poor life at day, not even working. Not that there _was _any work to be found. Maybe the city was notable in its long history, but it indeed was the most desolated waste Ancano had ever seen or read about.

The only point of interest in the entire frozen city built atop a frozen rock was a castle in the sky. The building was built on a reverse pyramid hovering in the sky, connected to nothing. At some point, it was probably built atop a hill, but the Great Collapse had destroyed much, Ancano supposed it was a show of the Magic of the college that it was intact, if barely. 

Unlike most colleges Ancano had known, visited, or attended throughout Tamriel, Winterhold’s college had no use for teleporting runes. It used the much more sophisticated magic of a bridge. A gate, actually.

“I suppose this is your stop.” Looking at the college, Estormo sighed. “We will make base somewhere warm nearby, perhaps somewhere near the Shrine to Azura up in the hills. I will delegate your new objectives as soon as I receive confirmation that the Embassy knows we have made base. Auri-El’s providence be with you”

* * *

Dismissed by his confidante, Ancano walked towards the bridge. Nobody was even watching the gate. Even a rag-tag of Nordic Savages could probably break into the college if they really put their mind into it. As he walked, he ignored the look of disdain he was receiving from the locals. A few scoffed, a few spat, one dragged her child back into her hut. He paid no mind, all he wanted was to find a fire and a warm drink. At this point, even _that _was a luxury.

He had to admit, the college quickly exceeded his expectations. As soon as he stepped a foot on the bridge, everything changed. He noticed the _visible _power of the Mana Wells the college was built upon. He noticed that a _foreign force _viewed him as an enemy –at the very least a threat. The college, like other schools of magic (and unlike what he had expected), had a sentience of its own, and it did not seem to like Ancano very much. Ancano could change that.

The second thing Ancano noticed, of course, was a woman in front of him. More accurately, a female Altmer in what passed for the Expert Robes around Skyrim.

“Halt!” The lady behind the gates commanded. Ancano’s reaction, though embarrassing, was involuntary. He stopped where he stood, rigid and in attention, barely stopping himself from saluting as if to a sentry in a military base. He supposed the she-elf truly _was _a sentry.

“The way is dangerous” she started, “the gate will _not _open. You shall not gain entry.” She said so in a firm voice, even if her face looked like she had said it a thousand times to people who were probably all interesting but at some point had merged into a single blob of ‘useless tourist’.

Ancano said nothing. The letter from Lady Elenwen explained everything better than he ever could. The she-elf clenched his nose in disgust as she stared at the Imperial Seal and the Stamp of the Thalmor. She snorted when she read the text, and she sighed when she looked back at the new delegate. “Your letter is acceptable, I suppose. Follow me, I will lead you to the Arch-Mage.”

When the short –if somewhat challenging- hike atop the bridge was over, she opened the gate. “The Arch-mage is in his quarters. Atop the Eastern Tower near the Hall of the Elements. I suppose the gatekeeper of the Hall will need your letter too.”

The ambitious delegate did not respond for he was walking towards the hall. At this clear and evident dismissal, the she-elf abandoned her aloof attitude and meekly said “Welcome to Winterhold”


	2. The Victim

As Eradil Enelvyn stared at the frozen ashes of what was once the proudest fortress against the Daedra in Skyrim, he could do nothing but remark on _how _it had come to this.

* * *

For his story to make sense, he had to return to the slopes of three weeks ago. He could remember it like it was not even a month ago. There he was, minding his own business. Protecting his pocket from probable thieves -rare as they were in Whiterun- when a pale individual in black robes went mad. Eradil –like most people of Whiterun- expected the man to be nothing but a monk on his way to visit Gildergreen before the Jarl could order it to be cut down and used as firewood for the incoming winter. He wasn’t the only one that had made visit –Whiterun had its own share of strange visitors.

What he _didn’t _expect was the monk not to have been here for the tree. He had made his visit two days ago. He hadn’t paid for a room in either the Bannered Mare or its less-known rival the Drunken Huntsman. In fact, Eradil didn’t remember noticing him going _anywhere _at night. Either way, the monk indeed went mad on that day. He went to the market square in the Plain’s District, where _everyone _in the city often was at this time of the day. He broke into the line in front of old Fralia’s stall only to buy a single sword –not even one of Eorlund’s own design, the absolute _travesty_-, scoff at the fresh products of Anoriath _and _Carlotta, and –exactly in the middle of the day, scream “_Behold the power of night!”_, drawing the sword, and plunging it into the neck of Brenuin, the local beggar who had just tried and failed to get some alms from Heimskr.

By the time Eradil had _noticed _what had happened and started to comprehend what he had seen, the city had fallen into chaos. After taking his first victim, the monk had abandoned his recently-bought sword entirely, turning towards the running townsfolk. “_Fear me!_” he screamed as he threw sharp spikes of ice at the fleeing people. Eradil, thrown into the ground at the beginning of the chaos, desperately came to his senses, trying to flee towards the nearest sanctuary.

By the time the guardsforce had arrived, the Pale Monk had took another seven victims, the largest in any single attack in Whiterun that Eradil knew or cared to think about, and that was only when the shedding of the blood started. The first guard to attack him struck with his steel sword at the man’s raised arm. The sword broke from the hilt. The monk roared, and the next second his arm was stuck out of the poor guard's back. _“Send someone for Jorvaskr. We can’t defeat this ourselves!_” someone shouted, a loud but calmly gruff voice responded _“No need_”

At this point, Eradil –the only citizen still in the battleground- was finally noticed by the Vampire. He turned around and Eradil could finally see his face. It was _supposed _to be a Nord. Or at least it resembled one, Eradil supposed. It was, however, not quite human. His cheekbones too high, his eyes too bright, his _fangs too sharp_. What wasn’t bright in the man’s face was decayed from the lack of blood. It was a creature of the night. The vampire noticed him, and the vampire pounced.

Eradil was not a fighter. By his nature, he had little skill in the melee. He could recognize that the sharp end of a stick was supposed to be plunged in an enemy, but nothing more. His knowledge of magic, alas, wasn't any more impressive. He was an apprentice in a city that tolerated no magic other than that of the Court Wizard’s or the Temple’s. The vampire did not care about his unfair advantage. With a swipe of his leg, he brought the fleeing elf down. Eradil knew his fate was sealed. The vampire was looking for food, and after so much bloodshed, there was no way he wasn’t going to take it. A blade, a spike of ice, or the dreaded Vampiric Drain, the only question was _which _would be the instrument of his death.

“_Now your blood is mine_!” The vampire grinned wickedly, and immediately afterwards fell on the elf. Eradil screamed, and then noticed the absolute lack of a bite or a moving enemy.

“Ugh” he cursed, “get _off _me” he did as he had demanded from the vampire, as it rolled away, he noticed the stick of wood sticking out of his stomack. He looked above to notice the extended hand of his savior. An Orc in a dark, grey chainmail Armor without a helm was looking at him. He held in his hand a crossbow, a rarity Eradil had heard about but never seen.

“Hey, you there” he said as he helped the elf up, “you alright?”

Eradil nodded as he cringed at a jolt of pain hitting his legs. “Thank you, kind sir” he said.

The Orc merely grunted. As the people slowly started returning to the scene of the crime –and as the guards began building a perimeter around the corpses of the vampire and its victims- the Orc shouted. “The Dawnguard is looking for anyone willing to fight against the growing Vampire Menace!”

Eradil wished he had the courage to say “Vampires? _Sign me up!_” Alas, his was not the path of courage. “What do you mean _growing vampire menace_?”

“Have you _ever _seen a vampire attack in broad daylight?” the Orc raised and eyebrow and scoffed, “no, let me reiterate, have you _ever _seen a Vampire attack a city center at all? You’re in shock now. Once you’ve come to your senses, you know where to find us. The Old Fort is east of Riften in the Dayspring Canyon on the path to Morrowind. You can’t miss it”

It was two whole weeks and three more Vampire attacks later that Eradil finally decided to join the Guard. The journey to the old Fort didn’t take long. The Canyon was on the path to Morrowind and a group of Dunmeri worshippers of Azura had stopped by Whiterun before returning home that he promptly joined on their way.

Three days later, one of the Mercenaries, a tall Dunmer wearing the Chitin armor native to Morrowind finally informed him that they had arrived at the Dayspring Canyon, Eradil’s stop. After wishing the elves a safe journey, Eradil entered the cave. A short distance down the path leading through the untapped canyon he noticed a nervous, excited Nord not even a day after his age of majority. “Ah, hey there!” the Nord said, “You here to join the Dawnguard too?”

Eradil ignored him. The Nord didn’t look any more a warrior than he did, other than the axe he had probably taken from his father’s home on his way here. Soon enough, he’d reached the Old Fort’s front door. Another man, wearing the same armor as the Orc had earlier, was waiting by the door.

The Warrior greeted Eradil and sent him in. “Isran”, he said, “will probably want to meet you.”

Inside the fort –in fact, in the only place in the fort that seemed to have any person in it- a Redguard with an armor similar t othe Orc was arguing with the only person nearby who’s regalia was recognizable. A Vigilant of Stendarr.

“Why are you here Tolan? The Vigil and I were finished _years _ago.” The Redguard asked. The Nord threw back “You _know _why I’m here, Isran. The Vigil is under attack _everywhere_. It wasn’t bad enough that your random hedge-witch summoned a Dremora on a rampage somewhere, now the Vampires are everywhere, and they’re more dangerous than we ever expected!”

“So that’s it? A ‘you were right’ and now you run to the safety of the Dawnguard?” The Redguard, the so-called Isran, snorted, “I remember perfectly well how Keeper _Carcette _repeatedly told me the Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin not worth the expense nor the manpower to repair. Now, you’ve pissed off the Vampires and need our protection?”

“Isran,” the Vigilant in question said solemnly, “Carcette is dead. The hall, _everyone_. They’re all dead. You were right. We were wrong. What more do you _want _me to say?”

“I never wanted this to happen, you have to know that” Isran, to his credit, looked apologetic, “I _am _sorry, you know- wait” he stopped, looking at the Elf for the first time, “Who’re you? What do you want in my Castle?”

“I’m here to join the Dawnguard” the High Elf said brightly. “You?” the Redguard was not quite as glad, “join the ‘guard? Have you ever raised a sword or axe at all?” Upon the meek shaking of Eradil’s hand, he snorted “what in Stendarr’s mercy do I even bother with guards anyway?”

“Look, I’ve seen the state of this place. Are you _quite _sure you don’t need any hands willing to help you?” Eradil pointed out. Isran wasn’t impressed, but he wasn’t quite unwilling to debate either. “Look around you, give me a few minutes to find something for you to prove your mettle first.”

Half an hour later, Isran had found his test. Eradil was dispatched to the Hall of the Vigilant three days later. There was no headquarters. The large building the Vigil had always boasted was simply _no more_. No outposts, guards, watchtowers, _anything_. In the place of the hall stood the burning remains of a building, a few of the still-intact corpses stacked here and there. Eradil had no way of knowing what they even were. Trying not to pay the smell much of a mind, Eradil tried to remember what the Vigilant in the Castle had said. Adavald, if Eradil’s memory could be trusted, had been abducted before the Hall was attacked. All Eradil could do now was to follow the trail of blood. Vampires weren’t one to waste blood, but he had no other leads. Hopefully that would lead him to his destination.

* * *

Obviously, it hadn’t. What it _had _done, however, was take him to a crypt; thus his current debacle. Inside, he was crouching behind a boulder as two vampires talked to each other below him; leaving the High Elf to question his own sanity. _Who walks into a Vampire Lair anyway?_

A damned Vigilant was lying on the ground. From up here, Eradil had no way of knowing _who _he was, but the Vigilant had taken two vampires with him.

Loading his crossbow, Eradil aimed at the head of the closest vampire. Fortunately, firing a crossbow didn’t require as much of a training as a longbow. All he needed was a straight hand, a firm grip, and a good aim. The first two he could train himself into in a matter of days –exactly as many days as one needed on a trip from the Rift to the Pale. The latter, Eradil supposed he had to rely on lady luck. With a prayer on his lips, he released the trigger. With a _thung_, a bolt left the crossbow. With a _thud_, a male Nord vampire crumbled to the ground.

That got the attention of the latter, a female Dunmer. She noticed his brethren, found the bolt, and began looking for a possible route. By the time she had found her target, Eradil had snuck to another boulder. By the time the she-elf had made way to the first boulder, Eradil had reloaded the bow. By the time the vampire had noticed him, she had a silver bolt stuck out of her neck.

The Vampire fell to the ground with open, confused eyes and Eradil released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. That he came to regret only a second later. A loud, _demonic _bark somewhere in the large hall explained patiently that he was still not alone. A black dog leaving a whisp of smoke behind it glared at him and snarled with his mouth open, showing his _too many teeth_. Cursing at his stupidity, Eradil dropped the crossbow.

He was lucky. He may not be much of a fighter _or _a mage, but fire is something every person in Skyrim has to know. He called upon the aura of destruction and unleashed a turret of flames upon the beast. Fire is naturally a concept canids are fearful against. This one was a _vampire_. Fire did not make it flee, fire burned the unlife out of it.

Walking with caution, the elf walked towards the tower-like structure in the hall. The gate the the two vampires were guarding –and that the Vigilant had tried to enter- was locked. It was probably only opened from a grate in the tower. He was, of course, right. The gate opened. Eradil mindlessly flipped the Vigilant over. _Of course_, he sighed loudly. It was Tolan, the same man who had survived the massacre in the Vigilant’s Hall in the first place.

Walking deeper into the now-obvious crypt, he found another vampire. Quickly taking cover behind the wall, he silently raised his crossbow, aiming at his pale, bald hair.

“Master” a drone-like voice said from in the room, “there is an enemy nearby”

Eradil nearly dropped his crossbow. It was a hunter, if his bow and arrows –and the lack of actual armor- could be trusted. And quite probably a vampire’s thrall.

_Darn_

The creature turned around. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see it. “Ah”, he exclaimed excitedly, “food. Excellent!”

Eradil discharged the crossbow accidentally. The wooden bolt lodged itself in the Vampire’s left eye, and the creature of the night fell to the ground.

_For fearsome monsters, these are quite easy to kill_, he thought as he prepared to die by the hunter-thrall’s hand, but despite the cry of shock and pain, the hunter did not attack him.

“W-where in oblivion _am _I?” he asked as he regained his senses.

_Really? That’s what your question is?_ Eradil scoffed as he answered “A crypt near the Hall of the Vigilant. Do you remember how you got here?”

“All I remember is tailing an elk. This guy in a crazy armor just-“ he looked at the dead vampire at his feet, “_yes. This was him. _A Vampire? Oh, gods have mercy, what has it done to me?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue, Nord” the Elf said, “But there is a settlement nearby. You can probably buy a potion to cure anything the vampire might have put in you. I’d visit a priest or a shrine too, but I don’t know how useful that might be.”

After the Hunter finally left the crypt -telling the Vampire Hunter how much he owed the man-, the unlikely Hero of this story walked deeper in the crypt yet. Close by, he found a fallen vampire, a large spider, and a few thralls. It did not require the Wisdom of Xarxes to knew _what _had happened here. As he killed his way through the vampires, he slowly began noticing the distinct change in architecture. The crypt had started Nordic –just like what Eradil expected a Nordic Crypt to look like- but now? This was not Nordic. Not even Atmoran. It was just as old, but different in every way. He had yet to find the last of the survivors. His task was not complete yet, and he was too curious to see where this would end now.

He opened the last door in the crypt, finding a cavern. It was quite likely meant to connect this crypt to another, but what he _was _in was a balcony and in front of him were two of the creepiest –most scary- statues he had ever seen. Grotesque monsters straight out of the nightmares of a Daedric Prince, with sharp talons and long stone wings. As he approached the balcony, planning on descending to the lower leve, he heard a clear oath.

“I’ll never tell you anything, Vampire!” It was a Vigilant, _the survivor he had been trying to find_. “My Oath to Stendarr is stronger than whatever suffering you might inflict on me!”

“Oh I believe you” one of the three vampires on the ground said in a bored drawl. “I don’t think you even _know _what treasure you have found here. Have no worry, you have your beloved god to meet”

There was an audible snap, a low grunt, and the distinct _thud _of a body falling into the ground. The last vigilant had been killed. Damn.

“Are you sure that was wise, Lokir?” a feminine voice –probably another Vampire- said, “He might’ve still told us something. we have no idea what-“

“Do be kind enough not to undermine me on my own mission, Amnala” the Vampire, Lokir, said, “We can talk after I-“

Eradil had heard enough. He aimed his crossbow at the male vampire’s head and squeezed the trigger. He failed.

Well, he supposed his luck had to run out _some time_.

Not that he missed his target entirely; oh no. The Bolt struck the Nordic Vampire in the shoulder, staggering it as the silver in the bolt began taking effect. A little higher or lower, and the Vampire would have died, but yet all Eradil had done was incapacitate the leader temporarily and enrage its followers.

“Someone’s here!” the other Vampire snarled, she ran to Lokir, Eradil noticing her throwing a spell at the dead vigilant’s body as he went by, “You’re going to owe me for this, Nord.” She warned as the dead Vigilant was arose by the blue hue of the spell the vampire had thrown his way.

_A necromancer!_

Eradil still had one advantage. The High Ground, and the fact that the vampire had no idea where he- The female vampire looked at him.

_Nevermind._

The female vampire raised her hand. A red aura surrounded her palm that she unleashed at her new victim. A jet of red light emitted from the vampire’s palm, and Eradil winced as the spell began taking effect. As he began feeling the effect of the spell he understood _why _a Vampire would like to use it. If it went on for another minute, there would no longer be an Eradil Enelvyn. Eradil raised his loaded crossbow and aimed at her hesitantly, his strength leaving him by the minute. With the last of his strength, he squeezed the trigger.

The vampire fell with a thud, the bolt sticking out of its chest. As soon as she was down, her unwitting thrall –failing at climbing the stairs of the balcony- had been reduced to ashes. Eradil did not wish to take any chances now, and so unleashed his entire pool of magicka upon the other vampire, the named ‘Lokir’, the moment he heard it moan and regain consciousness. The entire magickal force of an Altmer, concentrated in form of white-hot flames, burnt the vampire alive as it screamed in pain and agony. Given what Eradil had _just _went through and what the beast had done to the Vigilant minutes earlier, Eradil had no sympathy to give.

The Vigilant’s ashes held one thing intact, surprising as it was. A book written by the now-fallen-man’s own hand. Eradil opened the book after clear off the dust. The place was, apparently, named _Dimhollow Crypt. _With the name alone, he could deduce it was Vampiric in origin. No wonder it did not look like any Nordic Ruin he’d ever heard about. That was, obviously, all the Vigilant had time to discover. Alas, the Wheel turned to Eradil Enelvyn to continue his research. The fledgling Vampire Hunter stepped forward, a bridge connected the mainland to an island inside the Cavern. It was as much of a proof as one needed to learn the sheer efficiency of the Ancients in architecture. There was a dome, high and tall as six men, in the middle of a ring of columns that supported stone archs. Some of them had to have fallen apart, being there for so long. In the center, there was a stone pedestal half as tall as him, made of a purple marble, with a stone mushroom on the top. He walked towards it, quickly deducing the mushroom had to be a button.

_Whatever is inside the island will not reveal itself until I touch the button_ he pondered, and put his hand down on it, _cursing _a second later.

A thorn flashed upwards and with a _snickt _returned to the stone again, tearing the Elf’s hand apart. As pain jolted in his hand, he yelped and grabbed it, “_who in Oblivion puts a trap inside a button?_”

As he called upon the magic of restoration, he waited for something to happen. A door to open, a lever to be released, a gate to be raised, _anything_.

He was not disappointed. Once the thorn retracted and the blood on the stone disappeared, the lines carved around him lit up to what _looked _like cold violet flames.

_Blood magic_. He pondered. he noticed that a line of flame broke off from the circle and moved outwards. Following the line of flame, Eradil saw that there were even more lines carved in the stone beneath him. The line of flame moved, until it reached the first brazier. Then it stopped. Eradil, now with his hand healed as much as he could, walked to the new brazier. It could be moved. Eradil chuckled at the simplicity of the supposed puzzle as he moved the brazier to where the flames ended. He continued doing the same for the next other braziers, and once he was finished with the last, the center of the structure began sinking right beneath him, revealing more of the pillar.

As the shaking and the sinking and the moving stopped, he approached the pillar in the center. In the middle, right in front of him, there was a cylinder just a tad taller than him. He found another button. _If this one has a thorn too, I swear to all the divines that I-_ he pushed the button.

Wait. That was no cylinder. It was a sarcophagus. _Someone was inside_.

Noticing his mistake too late, Eradil brought his hand to his nose as the sarcophagus lid fell down and it sprung open. He was ready to puke, but there was no need; for there was a body inside but she sure as hell wasn’t a corpse.

“Uhhh” The mysterious woman opened her eyes, “where is- who sent you here?”


	3. The Vagrant

That night was quite a profitable one for _Bee and the Barb_. The bar was nearly full of patrons, the usual crowd –those few who never had a reason to return home until far later at night, the ones without the ability to cook, and the ones who needed the drink to make the days go by- were all there. A few beggars were filling their stomachs with venison –thanks to the priest of Mara who had took pity on them- Maul was sitting in a corner with a bottle of mead in his hand, trying to forget the day he’d gone through, and then there was Marcurio, Riften’s very own sorcerer-mercenary, telling another one of his tall tales.

“The damned _Draugr _were everywhere, none of them would step back. Fifteen deadly warriors, each back from eternal sleep; armed with gleaming swords of ebony you could see your reflection in. I knew I was screwed. _That, _I swore, _was the last time I was ever taking a fetch job_.” He paused, “or so I thought, like every other time I’m on a job.” Two or three were still paying attention –the action-packed part of the story with the _Draugr _and the singing was over after all- but most were busy wallowing in their own misery.

“Marcurio telling another tall tale?” the well-dressed man sitting next to him asked. He was new. Krex would have to know; the tavern was nearly his home given how much he frequented the joint. That didn’t mean he was _new _though. Brynjolf was a common sight in Riften. He had a stall in the open market and a history of selling ‘wonders’ every time he ran out of money. Like every other salesman in Riften, he was full of shit and empty of everything else. His ‘wonders’ were nothing but scams and everyone knew he was a charlatan, but in a city of charlatans, he never lost his customer base.

But all that he was, he wasn’t known for being social. Brynjolf often got lost in the crowds of the bazaar the moment he’d sold all his merchandise. Like everyone else, he knew his way around the city’s darker alleys, and like everyone else, he was safe in the city from watchful eyes. After all, for all his shiftiness and charlatanism, he was in good company.

“Never done a day of honest work in your entire fucking life, have you?” the Nord said. The Imperial scoffed. “I don’t work. Honest or not. You know that.”

“and it’s your wonderful, cheery attitude that gets you your mead, meat, and room every night, I suppose” the Nord smirked, “I wonder how the guards just _haven’t _seen it yet.”

_Dammit_.

Krex knew he’d been sloppy the night before. Nonetheless, this wasn’t the first time. Given his poor luck as a thief, it wouldn’t be the last, “How much do you want?”

The number didn’t matter of course. He could snatch triple whatever the man demanded before the night was over. With how the Nord laughed, he knew this as well.

“How stupid do you think I am?” the Nord laughed as the Imperial glared at him, “that won’t create a dent in you, and I’m in no need of _septims_, of all things. Especially not now. No, my friend” he smirked, “you’re going to do me a favor.”

“A favor?” The Imperial asked, confused at the Nord’s wording. Favors weren’t uncommon in Riften, but it was not common to _cajole one_ from another. The Nord calmly said “meet me at my stall tomorrow in the morning. I’ll have the miracle you seek.”

* * *

Brynjolf was waiting for Krex at his stall the next day. An hour before the merchantry had finished making inventory, Krex was there. Brynjoylf, not even sparing him a stare as he was busy setting up his stall by the potions in his sack, merely said “ah good, you’re here!”

“Just tell me what you want.” Said the Imperial glumly. Like most thieves, he was not a morning person at all.

“Eager for business? Perfect!” Brynjolf joked, “But fine. I will tell you _exactly _what I need. A client of mine needs a rival out of business. I have made a plan, but I need a partner. I’ve seen how you work, you’ll do nicely.”

He pointed at the stall next to his. The one with the chests full of jewelry. “At then in the morning, I will be advertising my newest miracle. _You _will use the distraction and visit Medasi’s stall. Pick the lock in the sloppiest way you can possibly manage, steal one of his rings –it doesn’t matter which, the more expensive the better. I’d personally suggest the one with a dragon emblem carved on it.

“That it?” Krex asked incredulously, “steal a ring? That’s how you want to push someone out of their business?”

“Oh no. That’s the first part. Next, you’ll return to the crowd –hopefully, nobody will have noticed you by then. The ring will need to be in Brand-Shei’s pocket before my advertisement is over. It is only then that we wait for the fun to start.”

“Steal a ring and frame it on what is quite possibly the only innocent person in this city? Sure, why not.”

* * *

The man was skilled at lying. No, actually not. He was skilled at _bullshitry_. He was one hell of an actor too, if how quickly he captivated his audience was anything to go by. Within seconds, the five stalls were empty and seventy-three people had gathered around Brynjolf as he introduced his newest fixer-elixir. That gave Krex his opening, and that suited him just fine. The hardest part, of course, was leaving a few broken _picks _near the still-open box. The easiest part was putting the ring in the poorly-named elf’s pocket as he roughly shoved him aside. “_outta my way, _you fucking Greyskin” he spat violently, and the elf, shocked at the sheer –out of character- racism, failed to notice the extra weight in his pocket.

It was two minutes later that Grelka the armorer, tired of Brynjolf’s advertisement, said “_fine_. I’ll take a bottle if it means you’ll stop talking.” And so she did. Once the bottle was opened, everyone groaned. “Aw man,” Marcurio whined, “Skeever piss _again_?”

“What a waste of time”  
“Why do we fall for this _every single time_?”

Everyone else left, some to their own stalls, some to do some purchasing. The market returned to its normal attitude. That is to say, until Medasi noticed his chest was open. _“Thief!” _he shouted.

Everyone shut up. Thievery wasn’t uncommon in Riften of all places, but it was, indeed, uncommon to see this sloppy a job. _Intentional, of course. _As the guards poured in to investigate, everyone stopped. The guards may not have been skilled in finding thieves, but that didn’t mean they were _incompetent_, just corrupt. Running during an investigation would be bad for business.

It was a stroke of luck. Or maybe not, as Krex had noticed this distinct guard talk with Brynjolf earlier, but _one _guard walked towards Brand-Shei.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?” Brand-Shei asked politely, before he was roughly grabbed by the guard who shoved a hand in his pocket and brought out the ring and two picks. “The ‘problem’, elf, is your disregard for the laws of this land.” The guard responded snidely, “You’re coming with me. You’d better get used to your new home for the immediate future.”

A pity. Brand-Shei was a good elf. Naïve, sure, but good. Alas, he had to go. Brynjolf was waiting for him by the stall. “A pleasure to watch you work, Krex. As always. You’re off the hook, my _organization _is a few septims richer. How’s that for a profitable co-venture?”

Krex scoffed, “I’m not a lap dog, nor am I a fish to be off the hook”. _This_ was not a pleasure for him. As he started to walk away, Brynjolf threw one last jab. “One other thing. Ten percent of the profit is yours.” He paused, “that is to say, if you can find me. Look for the _Ragged Flagon_. Meet me there, and we’ll talk.”

* * *

Krex had heard of the Ratways. The sewer system, a series of dark, musty, and dirty tunnels beneath the city that were rumored to have the entirety of the city’s pests. The outermost parts were known as the Beggars’ dwelling, as most beggars returned there at night. The Ratway had a lot of pests. Some were rats. The others… not quite.

The first two that Krex met were armed with iron swords but not armored at all. Bare-chested even. Two Nords with swords in hand and a half-crazed look in their eyes.

The first fell immediately. Krex’s short dagger puncturing his heart. The second was a bit sober, he tried to block the attack. He was either not experienced or had a death wish. You do _not _block a dagger with a sword as long as your own arms. Krex’s dagger punctured a lung. The beggar fell, gasping for air and not receiving any.

_Skooma addicts _he thought as he stepped over the corpse carefully. These two were probably on a withdrawal, no Skooma in a month or two. Another two were in the way, but with a bit of sneaking, Krex was able to find the Flagon without any more bloodshed. That was a problem in and of itself, for the tavern was empty of patrons.

Everyone inside shared the same grey and brown leather armors and hoods.

This was the home of the thieves, or what was left of it anyway. There were less than a dozen people in the Flagon, a bunch of elves and humans, all clad in the brown-and-blue armor that the fabled Grey Fox was said to have chosen as the uniform for his kind in the beginning of the fourth era. Krex wasn’t surprised, even if he didn’t expect what he had found. It was all but an open secret that the thieves dwelled beneath the city itself.

The bar was really the only dry part of the Flagon. A scruffy Nord stood behind it, serving a ‘patron’ a drink. Brynjolf wasn’t hard to find either, he was the patron in question. His armor, of course, was distinct too. He wore all-black, as opposed to brown or blue. “Ah, glad to see you could make it lad!” said the thief as he noticed Krex, “make yourself at home!”

“This place _smells_” Krex shuddered. A woman with a familiar voice scoffed, “Yes, Krex. It smells because we can’t do _anything _about it.” A Nord with a cynical attitude, divine beauty, and hot temper. When she wasn’t known for her beauty, she was known for her temper. Most knew her as Sapphire. Most called her ‘Crap, she’s _here_, run!’. Krex knew her as a friend. Well, as close to a friend as a rival thief can be.

“But we can try! All we need is skill!”

A bald man sitting on a dirty chair, wearing an armor similar to the Nord’s, scoffed. “’Skill’? I’m been telling you, ‘jolf. Skill won’t matter a damn as long as we’re under a curse. We’ve lost our luck. What good is a thief without luck on his side?”

“Alright. Let’s put that to a test” Brynjolf said, looking at Krex even if he was not this target audience, “Are you ready for a _new _mission? Twice the usual pay”

“I’m not your slave, Bryn. Pay me first.” Krex was not impressed. Brynjolf shrugged as he threw the Imperial a purse of coins, “A hundred drakes, as promised. Now, your mission. Do you remember Brand-Shei?”

“The innocent Dunmer I just framed for the sloppiest job any thief has ever done in history? Yes.”

“Don’t you think you should make it up to him?”

* * *

The first phase of the mission was actually pretty simple. Get yourself thrown in jail. That’s easy. All he had to do was make a bit of trouble in the market and get caught. Given the ‘agreement’ the thieves had with the guards, he had to be as obvious as possible. Do it in front of the guards even.

“There is _no way_ this armor is worth five hundred septims. The leather is already worn, for crying out loud!” he exclaimed loudly.

“Five hundred. Take it or leave it.” Grelka spat at his feet. Krex smirked. He drew a dagger. _Snickt_.

“Can I get it for two hundred and fifty now?” he scoffed, “no second thought, nah.” He turned to walk away. Grelka grabbed her Warhammer as she growled, but there was no need. Krex was stopped promptly as he collided with a shield. “I suppose it was time you got caught for once, eh Krex?” the guard jabbed snidely, “A night in jail for you”

* * *

“You owe this city five hundred septims. That means a night in this cell, and a day of service in the fishery.” The single guard looking over the prison said. Well, not true. He was the only guard in _this _wing. There were more of them elsewhere. The political prisoners had to sleep somewhere after all.

Krex began the second phase of his work the moment the guard had returned to his post. He had a single _pick_ hidden with him, and the celldoor was quite the easy lock to pick.

He crouched as he snuck out of his cell. The rags, thankfully, muffled his movement even if he could probably use his own armor now. The only other cell in this wing was occupied by his target.

The Dunmer was sitting on a chair, hands crossed as he moped.

“Psst. Brand-Shei!” he whispered.

The elf turned. Krex held a finger to his own mouth, a world-wide symbol for ‘don’t make a sound’. “I’m breaking you out.”

Three minutes later, the two were in Krex’s own cell. “Why are you even doing this, Krex? My sentence will be over in a week” the Dunmer pointed out as they whispered, hoping the guard wouldn’t _just _decide to do his rounds.

“Please. You made a powerful enemy. If Maven has her way, you’re going to rot in here as a prisoner, if someone with a black hand on his chest doesn’t come for you first.”

“_Maven_” the elf snarled, his hand lit with mage-fire. “Fine, fine. You lead, I follow.”

The third, and hardest, part of the mission was now in effect. Krex pulled the strange symbol close to a handle mysteriously located in his cell. The leftemost wall of the cell fell apart, raising a sea of dust and revealing a new path. The Ratways.

“Who even paid you to do this?” As the two snuck through the Ratways, Brand-Shei asked. “Do what?” “Break me out. No offense, but you’re not known for your philanthropy”

“Who do you think?” Krex snickered, “The rivals of the same people who put you in jail in the first place, of course. The Silver-Bloods in Markarth.”

The two finally reached the door that led to a mysterious-looking well outside the city, in one of the few places not watched by the guards. “Once you open the door and climb the ladder, a pair of Mercs are waiting for you. Tell them ‘Maven sends her regards’, and they’ll escort you to Markarth. Once you’re in there, do _nothing _before you visit the Silver-Blood Inn. The Innkeeper will have your new job ready for you.” Brand-Shei, bless his heart, was just as clueless, “my new job?”

“I expect they’ll give you a wide berth of fields to be employed in. Remember, you owe the Silver-Bloods for this, and uh” he coughed, “it’s obvious that if you show your face in Riften again, you’re likely to get Maul after you so… don’t do that, I guess?”

* * *

Thirteen minutes later he was back in his cell. He quickly covered the debris behind the fallen wall. After relocking his own gate, he sat on the bed, sighing in contentment. He had a day of prison to get over with.

* * *

When he returned to the Flagon again, the Barkeeper was arguing with Brynjolf. “Give it up, Bryn. The good old days are _over_” said the ‘keeper, a Nord whose name Krex hadn’t picked up yet.

“I’m telling you, kinsman. This time is going to be different!” Brynjolf responded, to which the Bald Imperial scoffed, “You’ve been saying that for years, Bryn. It’s about time you wake up from this dream of yours.”

“Yes, it is time to face the real world, old friend. Times are changing. Mercer, you, Vex… you’re part of the Old Guard, a dying breed.”

“A dying breed, eh?” Brynjolf raised an eyebrow as he pointed at Krex, standing nearby. “What do you call _that_?”

“A man who wants his money” Krex threw back. “If your Mercs do their job right, ‘Shei will be in Markarth in the next week.”

“Color me impressed, lad! I wasn’t expecting a full success; even from you” Brynjolf was pleased. “Reliable _and _competent in what you do. You’re turning to be quite the prize. But that’s good. It’ll give us the edge to show everyone that the Guild is _back_”

“Listen up everyone!” He raised his voice. “I’m calling for a _free night_!”

Whatever that was, it was interesting enough that everyone in the Flagon had his attention with those six words. “Get out of the Flagon. Tonight, Riften’s ours for the taking. Raid every house; marking or not. Take everything that you can carry, throw the rest in the rivers. Make Honrich a river of gold if you have to. Liberate every thief from the dungeons, _empty every pocket_. It is time we sent a message. The Thieves Guild is back, _stronger than before!_”

“I think you’ll do more than just fit in here.” Then, he turned from the cheering crowd. “What do you say, are you ready to join us?”

_Am I?_

Krex thought for a second. There was no other choice, truly. The Guild was the only way Krex could make his life worthy of living, rather than limit himself to the patrons of _Bee and the Barb_ in exchange for bread, mead, and bed. “Count me in.”

“Good.” Brynjolf smiled. The first time he’d done that in the long time Krex had seen him around in the city. “Follow me and I can show you the _true _hall of the Guild.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Any new rumors you could share with us, barkeep?” said a stranger in hide armor. An adventurer on his way, most likely. Few visited _The Stumbling Sabercat _if it wasn’t on their way. Its unfortunate position inside a military fort –one that had until recently been used as a bandit holdout until the Stormcloak Rebellion had cleared it out- made sure that nobody would go out of their way to visit the inn. That made _The Stumbling Sabercat _both a poor business to hold and a perfect place for a man to get lost in. In this case, a mer.

The tavern’s new owner was Shadi Sendu. A Redguard woman who had lived Windhelm for most of her life until she had learned that Baral, the former owner of this joint and her distant cousin, had been murdered. She had been part of the contingent that had cleared Fort Dunstad. Well, not _part _of the contingent, she was an army cook, and she’d managed to appeal to her commander’s sense of pity to be allowed to visit the place her cousin had been butchered in. When the soldiers settled in, so did she.

“Not much to share, Orngar.” She threw back. “A _runner _from Windhelm posted a new missive for recruitment. I don’t suppose you wish to serve the land of your forefathers?” Upon hearing the scoff coming from the adventurer’s side, she continued, “three Vigilants asked for sanctuary for the night on their way to the Rift; a Companion popped up to cash in their price for returning a prisoner to the Fort.”

The lady continued to point out every event of interest that had happened the last few days, not even remotely aware of the fact everyone in the Inn had been aware of that. She finished her list of events with “oh, and apparently a lad in Windhelm tried to call for the Dark Brotherhood lately; if the traveler I heard this from can be trusted.”

_That _got Farwil’s attention. A sacrament? In Windhelm? Without taking his look off his venison, the Dunmer perked his ears.

“A lad tried the _Black Sacrament_?” the adventurer, apparently, was of the same mind, “Are you sure?”

“It’s just a rumo, Orngar. What I heard from a travelling mercenary on his way to Whiterun. A kid just above the Grey Quarter locked himself in his room. The man in question heard the sounds of slashing and stabbing, and he got curious. He asked around.” The adventurer shot back, “And what is Jarl Ulfric doing about all this? Why’s the lad not shipped to Honorhall yet?”

The conversation probably went on, but Farwil had heard enough. If he was lucky, he had finally found his opening, a way into the last Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood. Farwil Berano rose abruptly. He left a purse of coin on the table –probably more than enough to pay for the tab he’d gathered in his long stay in the inn- and rose to finally leave _The Stumbling Sabercat_. He had a reason to live again.

* * *

Farwil arrived in Windhelm only a day before Skyrim heard the Greybeards make their call for the first time in two eras. Despite its rich history with the Dunmer in the last few centuries, Windhelm had a reputation as the coldest city in Skyrim, and it was not just for the chill in the air. No matter how much of its atmosphere had been exaggerated by Imperial Propaganda the last few months as the war began in full force, Farwil had no intention of becoming the center of anyone’s attention in his hopefully short visit in the Oldest City of Skyrim.

Thankfully, there was _one _occupation that everyone would accept even a Dunmer of doing. Thanks to a surprisingly intelligent Orc’s timely visits to most important cities in Skyrim, the Dawnguard –an even more zealous version of the Vigil of Stendarr, if you could believe it- were famous enough that nobody would question a person beginning an inquisition as long as he wore the appropriate armor and acted appropriately self-righteous.

Not that Farwil even _needed _the armor for investigation. Walking towards what used to be the Snow Quarters, it took the Elf minutes to get as much of a confirmation as one _possibly _can get that an individual is performing the Sacrament without being in the know.

“So it’s true then, what everyone keeps saying” a child was saying, “That the weird Aretino kid is doing _the Black Sacrament_? Is he really trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?”

“Ah, little Grimvar, always with the creativity.” A fellow Dunmer responded. She was a Sadri –a Hlaalu, not that there were many non-Hlaalu out of the Grey Quarters anyway- and apparently she had swallowed her pride, if the way she talked with ‘her little Lord’ was anything to go by, “No, no. Of course not. You know better than to trust baseless rumors, m’lord.”

“Oh?” The child –Grimvar- responded, “then I’m sure there’s no problem if I invite him out to play. I’m sure Sophie will be glad to have a new playmate other than little old me. I’m going to knock on the door and-“

“No!” the Dunmer caretaker snapped as she grabbed the boy’s arm roughly. Grimvar turned and stared at the Dunmer with a curious glint in his eyes. The Dunmer slowly took her hand off him with a sheepish look on her face, “You are right, m’lord. The house –and the child- they’re both cursed.”

“Then I was right. He really _is _trying to get someone killed!”

“I will not deny what you know for sure, child” the Dunmer sighed, “What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin. Now come along, you have your daily duties to attend to, and I have Lord Torsten to return to.”

As the Dunmer and Nord left the house, Farwil had heard all he cared to. Aventus Aretino –he certainly remembered hearing the rumors of the first child in many decades to flee the Honorhall Orphanage- but not that he was so desperate for death.

* * *

As he entered the house –picking the lock was not much effort, especially thanks to Farwil’s hefty opening spell- he winced at the stench. The filthy, stinking smell of a corpse. Someone was certainly doing _something _here. Farwil raised his head. The shadow on the roof completed the scene for him all the war. All he could see was a hand, holding a sharp blade, coming down again and again.

“Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me; for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear” a boy was whispering, chanting quietly as he stabbed _something _in the chest. It was probably a human once but whoever the boy’s volunteer had been, she had been dead long enough.

As the Elf climbed the stairs, he took note of the person responsible for the first Black Sacrament he’d ever heard in Skyrim in many decades. It was clearly Colovian. Too pale for a Redguard, not pale enough for a Nord, taller than any Breton had the right to be. Didn’t _have _the Colovian accent, but that was understandable. The boy was stabbing the corpse, firmly held inside a circle of candles leaving grey fumes with a dagger coated with petals of nightshade. He was sobbing quietly as he recited the summoning words. That was understandable too. Few were in a state of calm when they resorted to this most excessive way for retribution. Even grown men and aged Mer were shaky when performing a Sacrament, no wonder the child was sobbing.

“Enough” he said calmly, “Your cries have been heard and answered”  
The child nearly jumped in shock. He quickly grabbed his dagger in a poor icepick grip and turned as he dropped low into a fighting stance. But then, he actually took the meaning of what Farwil had insinuated. “You came!” he said, sobbing as he laughed, “you’re _finally _here! I performed the Sacrament for too long, oh divines I was almost losing hope”

The Elf said nothing. He probably should have mentioned that thanking the divines after one of the most heretical acts one can take is _generally _not a good idea, but that was not his place. The boy continued, “but now you’re here. You can receive my contract!” he cleared his throat, “I want you to kill a person. I want you to kill Grelod the Kind.”

“The kind matron of the Orphanage?” Farwil looked at the boy, speaking after a few seconds of silence, “_why_?”

“My… my mom passed from the cold last winter. I was sent to the orphanage in Riften. To _Grelod_. They told me –they told us- she was a kind woman, that she was ‘the mother we couldn’t have’,” he scoffed, “well she wasn’t. She hit us every day and didn’t give us food and made us do- and… and… and I want her _dead_” he said with a tone only a few seconds away from bursting into tears. This much hatred, Farwil had not seen in a child –though mind you, it was common in people who performed the sacrament. “I wasn’t even the only one-“ he boy continued, “_everyone _wants that old bag of nasty gone. I was just the only one who managed to escape. I escaped, escaped and returned home. Please, sir. You _have _to kill Grelod!”

“I will see what I can do” the elf sighed, “do me a favor. Get rid of the sacrament. The corpse, the petals, the candles, _everything._ If anyone comes to talk to you about a contract, deny everything. Can you do that, young man?”

“I will” he said as he sniffled, the elf responded “good. I will be back as soon as I am able to.”

And thus began Farwil’s second trip to Riften.

* * *

Grelod “the Kind” was not a nice woman. She did not exactly _care _about being nice; if anything she thrived to be as nasty to everyone as possible. It was, in reality, a surprise that she was still alive –one that she thought about every night as she took refuge in her room, trying to sleep. Nearly half the number of the guards in the city proper were his own former charges. In a city as lawless as Riften, with a person of _her _reputation? It was only the sheer fear they all had of her that left her standing.

“Now listen up, you no good pieces of skeever dung!” she said, giving the children their evening promotional speech, “Nobody needs you, nobody wants you! That’s _why _you’re here in the orphanage rather than with a parent or a relative or some other rubbish. You’re going to be here until you’re of age, and when you’re of age, I’m sure you’ll be just glad as I am to get your ugly mugs and your fat behinds out of my building and into that wide, _horrible _world outside. You get me?” 

“Yes, Grelod, you’re very kind” the five children _still _in the building said in a monotone. Four had that lovely, dull look of hopelessness in their eyes. One still had some will left in her. Probably new, it generally took then a few weeks to lose that hatred and accept their fate.

No. Grelod was not kind, and that was by design. These children _didn’t_ need, want, nor deserve kindness. They needed someone to show them the world for what it really was when they were still young and naïve. They would understand her kindness when they grew to have their own children, but not before that. Grelod could live with that.

When Grelod opened the door to her room –the only room in the Orphanage with a bed- she sighed. Her evening drink was on the table next to her reclining chair –thank the divines for Constance. She sat on her chair, she raised the mug, and she sipped her drink. She winced at the taste, it was sweeter than usual. Constance was not one to change habits this easily. Something was amiss.

“Had a nice drink?” The door to her room closed. Grelod’s eyes widened as a figure practically walked out of the shadow in the corner of the room. The figure –if it indeed was a figure and not a result of her old age catching up with her- was clad in all-black, not even its face was visible. “I hope you enjoyed it. One of your charges paid quite a hefty sum to make sure you could drink it as your last.”

That was when the poison kicked in.

* * *

As Farwil Berano left the building the same way he had arrived, he failed to notice two things. Failed, or did not care to. The door had not been closed completely, and –once they had heard Grelod’s gasp- the five children had all gathered behind the room, eavesdropping on whatever it was that was happening. Once the voices stopped, the children slowly opened the door. Their curiosity was enough that they were willing to even brave a beating –one that Grelod promised any child stupid enough to go into her room unannounced would receive.

The old hag was on her seat. Her eyes were open but her chest not moving. It was Francois Beaufort who was brave enough to check on her. As he raised a hand to catch her pulse, he half-expected the woman to grab it. A second later, he turned towards the other four. Upon seeing their curious looks and the untold ‘_what?_’, he shook his head discreetly.

“She’s… _she’s dead?_” Hroar, another child whispered. “Can’t believe it, she’s _finally _dead.” And the room exploded in exclamations about her death. It was only Runa Fair-shield, the newest addition to the Orphanage, who actually understood the ramification of what had happened. Aventus had _finally _did it. He’d freed them from Grelod. As she cheered along everyone else, she couldn’t help but ponder, _kill one person and so many problems are solved. One can’t help but wonder…_

* * *

“So” Aventus asked after the Assassin had returned to his home, “is Grelod… you know?”

“Yes” Farwil Berano responded, “Grelod the Kind is dead.”

“Yes!” The child jumped and punched the air, “thank you, thank you, thank you! How can I pay you for you-“

“I don’t take babysitting money” Farwil sniffed, “Instead, promise me to find yourself a caretaker. One way or the other. You have your entire life ahead of you, it will not do to be remembered only as ‘the weirdo who did the Black Sacrament’”

The child, of course, wasn’t paying any attention. “Kill one person and so many problems are solved! Oh, when I grow up I’m definitely going to become an Assassin too!”

_By Sithis, he had created a monster_.

* * *

Farwil already knew what was coming when he put his head on the pillow in the Inn. As he had left the Aretine residence, he had noticed the note pierced to the wall with a dagger. The piece of paper with a single Black Palm and _two words: _WE KNOW. His plan was working perfectly. 

That was why he was not surprised when he woke up to the sounds of a marsh, and not that of Eastmarch. And that was why he did not lose his bearing when a woman, sitting leisurely on a shelf nearby said “slept well?”

The woman wore an armor Farwil hadn’t seen for a long time now –not since he burnt his own. She wore a face mask and _most importantly_, she had the signature blade of the Assassin Brotherhood on her hip.

“soundly. At least for a murderer.” Farwil grinned. He was in a shack, it was colder than even Eastmarch, but the sound of the frogs and the distant hissing of reptiles was a good enough reason for him to know that he was at least two holds west. The shack was made of pine. Somewhere close to High Rock, then. The Brotherhood had gone through _quite _the effort to abduct him.

The assassin lady jumped down from the shelf she was sitting on. “Don’t worry. You’re warm. Alive. Still breathing, with little poison in your body. You slept quite soundly too, as you yourself said. That’s more than what can be said for poor old Grelod.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry at you. It was quite the professional performance -Sithis knows it was better than half of my siblings’” Upon seeing Farwil’s blank face, she continued, “but the thing is, Grelod _wasn’t _yours to kill. Aretino was calling for the Dark Brotherhood” here she pointed at the black palm imprinted on her armor, “that’s us. Grelod was _ours _to kill. A kill stolen is a kill that ought to be repaid.”

_Oh_

The old “figure the contract” trick. He knew that one. He’d been on the wrong side of the joke once, and he’d played it far too many times not to recognize it for what it was. Recruitment. But, to continue with the charade, he dumbly said “repay? What do you mean?”

“There are three people with you in the cozy house we came to borrow. At least _one _is a contract.” She pointed to her left. A well-dressed Khajiit, a Breton in a tunic, and a Nord Mercenary were shackled to the walls nearby. Each with an execution hood on their head.

“So I get to choose which one is the contract?” “Aye, and if you pick the right choice, you’re free to go. Simple as that”

Not quite. Farwil had no time to cast a _detect _spell, but he was willing to bet his own dagger that he would be killed the moment he stepped foot out of the shack alone. OR rather, the assassins would try. He already knew this game. He’d played it too many times not to. But _she _didn’t know that. She unlocked her shackles and waved.

* * *

“Look, I’ve done nothing, alright?” The Nord said, “Just let me go. I don’t have to drakes to rub together, whatever you’re hoping to get from me, I can’t pay you!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to do anything” Farwil said reassuringly, “tell me, why are you here. What could you possibly have done to find yourself in this scenario?”

“How in the nine should _I _know? I’m just a drakeless mercenary. A blade for hire, you know. I’ve never done anything out of line that I wasn’t paid for!” he paused, “There may have been- no, it was war, right? Shit happens. Can you blame me for doing what everyone does in war?” 

In other words, a rapist and a bandit who used the badge of privateering he had received to go on rampages too many times and made the mistake of leaving a survivor once.

* * *

“Get me the fuck out of here, you lousy, good-for-nothing milkdrinkers! I have _six _children to feed!” shrieked the Breton woman with an irritating aura of self-righteousness.

“So why are you here? Do you think anyone might want a reckoning with you?” 

“I’m a single mother of _six. _I don’t have the time to make enemies, much less someone who wants me dead. How should I know?”

A bitter widow who humiliates her fellow citizens, then. One of her many victims did something drastic. Maybe committed suicide. Now, the victim’s relatives look to make the person responsible for their suffering pay. _Dull._

* * *

“You are finally here for your true target, are you?” The Khajiit said, “worry not. It is _Vasha_. Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, defiler of daughters. If this one’s enemies did not ask for his head, Vasha would be offended. Now, release Khajiit so he can pay you in kind. 

A bandit chief, then. Probably the leader of an organization Fultheim would work for. He didn’t even need to be a seasoned assassin with multiple contracts finished to figure _this _one out.

* * *

“Have you made your decision?” the assassin asked the dunmer. Farwil smirked. _It was time for the big reveal_.

“You’re not really a speaker, are you?” 

“What?” the woman asked, losing her bearing, Farwil continued, “A speaker. You know, one of the four fingers of the hand. You are a dark sister, that much is obvious, but you don’t wear the robes. How can you be sent to recruit anyone?”

“The last Speaker died in Cheydinhal ten years ago.” The woman frowned, “there are no Speakers alive anymore.”

“The last speaker died five months ago” the dark elf corrected, “Sacrificed herself in Kvatch only so I could escape”

“You are a dark brother too?” “Yes. Took you this long to figure it out? These three are all contract. They will be dead no matter who I pick. They all deserve death too.” He said, “and that is irrelevant. Grelod is dead. I killed her to get in contact with you –that is to say, apart from doing every single orphan in Skyrim a favor. I want back in.”

“The more the merrier” the Dark sister sighed. “I suppose you know about the guards outside too. Fine, allow me to escort you to the Sanctuary. I’m sure everyone will be glad to see the person responsible for Grelod get his dues.”

* * *

The only active sanctuary in Skyrim was located in the Pine Forest, in a cave under the hill right next to the City of Falkreath, where he had first entered Skyrim from. The four assassins led him to the sacred door. The Breton, an assassin with two daggers strapped to her back, said “Well, we’re here.”

“_What is the music of life_?” the otherworldly door voiced. _“Silence, my brother_” The Breton answered, _“Welcome Home”_

The figure of the dreadlord on the door opened its eyes. The eyes flashed red. The black door opened. Inside, as is with all sanctuaries, there was nothing but darkness for those who could not _see_.

The Breton walked in first, vanishing into the void. A Dark Elf with a bow on his back followed suit. The Dark Sister that had the displeasure of recruiting him grabbed his arm and said “Like the door said, Welcome Home.”

The sanctuary was like any other in Skyrim. Apart from the fact it was quite obviously the lair of assassins. Banners of the Black Hand hung from the walls, and the inhabitants of the cave were all in an assassin armor, some form or the other anyway. Walking down the stairs, he entered a room almost identical to the old office in Kvatch.

A table with a strategic map of Skyrim in the middle of it, multiple black flags stuck out of the map, marking the known sacrament locations. There were two bookcases with _morbid _choices of words on them, and a room with a bed –probably that of the Sanctuary Matron- just behind the table.

“Finally!” The matron sighed in relief, “I hope you did not mind the entourage. The last person we told the location of the sanctuary turned out to be a Vigilant. The battle was messy.”

He nodded. The last person Marion the Speaker had made the mistake of informing the location of their _own _sanctuary had happened to be _Morag Tong_. The following battle was one bloodbath he wished never to see again. “I understand. What happens now?”

“Now? Nothing” the matron chuckled, “You join the family –well, return to some distant relatives, more accurately for you. Get comfortable. But first, some explanations: as you quite well know, we have no Listener”

Well, that was true. The last one had died in Bravil, protecting the Night Mother’s crypt. The Night Mother _was _en route, if the letter he had received a few days before Marion was any evidence, but she had not chosen a listener. Well, not yet.

“As such,” she continued, “finding the people who’ve performed a sacrament is a bit difficult. Once in a blue moon, we learn of a rumor like young Aretino’s problems. We dispatch a brother to take the job. Normally, however, we’re just blades for hire. Deadly blades that aren’t supposed to be seen, but blades nonetheless.” She paused, “I hope to change that soon.”

“How?” he asked, “Well, the Night-Mother is paying us a visit soon. She’ll be here, hopefully she’ll find us a Listener too –Sithis knows that’ll make things much _much _easier.” She sighed, “for now, we use Nazir’s system -I’m sure you remember the rules. Small-time contracts don’t come from the Matron herself. Nazir will probably have your next targets for you. For now, be sure to pick an empty bed. You’ll find a new blade and armor close by.” She paused again, “consider it a gift. May it serve well in all your” here she grinned, “endeavors.”

Chuckling quietly as he walked through the door, Farwil finally walked into what passed for a Great Hall in the Sanctuary’s cave. The main room was a large hall. It had a magesroom, a forge, and a sleeping chamber. A natural waterfall flew into a small cave next to a strange curved wall in the farthest corner of the hall –he wondered if the hall had been there for a long time. In the middle, there were a few people sitting around a spit. An Argonian was saying “again! Again, do the part where he tries to buy you candy!”

And when a little girl started talking, moving her hands exaggeratedly with a maliciously amused glint in her eyes, he smiled as he slipped into the crowd. He was home again.


End file.
